Arena One: Slaverunners

gently in mine, and I am surprised to feel slight butterflies in my stomach.

“Let me help you,” I say, softly. “This is going to hurt. But it needs to be done. We have to straighten it before it sets,” I add, lifting his broken finger and examining it. I think back to when I was young, when I’d fallen in the street and came in with a broken pinky finger and Mom had insisted on taking me to a hospital. Dad had refused, and had taken my finger in his hands and snapped it back into place in one quick motion, before my Mom could react. I had screamed in pain, and I remember even now how much it hurt. But it worked.

Ben looks back at me with fear in his eyes.

“I hope you know what you’re doing-”

Before he can finish, I have already snapped his crooked finger back into place.

He screams out, and backs away from me, holding his hand.

“Damn it!” he screams, pacing around, holding his hand. Soon he calms, breathing hard. “You should have warned me!”

I tear a thin strip of cloth off of my sleeve, take his hand again, and tie his finger to the one next to it. It is a lame stint, but it will have to do. Ben stands inches away, and I can feel him looking down at me.

“Thanks,” he whispers, and there is something in his voice, something intimate, that I haven’t sensed before.

I feel the butterflies again, and suddenly feel I am too close to him. I need to stay clear-headed, strong, detached. I back away quickly, walking over to my side of the cell.

I glance over and see that Ben looks disappointed. He also looks exhausted, dejected. He leans back to the wall, and slowly slumps down to a sitting position, resting his head on his knees.

It’s a good idea. I do the same, suddenly feeling the exhaustion in my legs.

I take a seat opposite him in the cell, and lower my head into my hands. I’m so hungry. So tired. Everything aches. I would do anything for food, water, pain killers, a bed. A hot shower. I just want to sleep-and sleep forever. I just want this whole thing behind me. If I’m going to die, I just want it to happen quickly.

We sit there for I don’t know how long, both in silence. Maybe an hour passes, maybe two. I can’t keep track of time anymore.

I hear the sound of his belabored breathing, through his broken nose. It must be so hard for him to breathe, and my heart goes out to him. I wonder if he’s fallen asleep. I wonder when they will come for us, when I will hear those boots again, marching us to our deaths.

Ben’s voice fills the air, a soft, sad, broken voice: “I just want to know where they took my brother,” he says, softly. I can hear the pain in his voice, how much he cares for him. It makes me think of Bree.

I feel the need to force myself to be tough, to force myself to stop all of this self-pitying.

“Why?” I snap back. “What good would it do? There’s nothing we can do about it anyway.” But in truth, I want to know the same thing-where they’ve taken her.

Ben shakes his head sadly, looking crushed.

“I just want to know,” he says softly. “For my own sake. Just to know.”

I sigh, trying not to think of it, not to think about what’s happening to her right now. I try not to think about whether she thinks I’ve let her down. Abandoned her.

“Did they tell you they’re putting you in the arena?” he asks. I can hear the fear in his voice.

My heart flutters at the thought. Slowly, I nod.

“You?” I ask, already guessing the answer.

Grimly, he nods back.

“They say no one survives,” he says.

“I know,” I snap back. I don’t need reminding of this. In fact, I don’t want to think of it at all.

“So, what are you gonna do?” he asks.

I look back at him.

“What do you mean? It’s not like I have any options.”

“You seem to have a way out of everything,” he says. “Some last minute way of dodging things. What’s your way out of this one?”

I shake my head. I’ve been wondering the same thing, but to no avail.

“I’m out of ways,” I say. “I’ve got nothing.”

“So that’s it?” he snaps back, annoyed. “You’re just going to give up? Let them bring you to the arena? Kill you?”

“What else is there?” I snap back, annoyed myself.

He squirms. “I don’t know,” he says. “You must have a plan. We can’t just sit here. We can’t just let them march us off to our deaths. Something.”

I shake my head. I’m tired. I’m exhausted. I’m hurt. I’m starving. This room is solid metal. There are hundreds of armed guards out there. We’re underground somewhere. I don’t even know where. We have no weapons. There’s nothing we can do. Nothing.

Except one thing, I realize. I can go down fighting.

“I’m not letting them march me to my death,” I suddenly say, in the darkness.

He looks up at me. “What do you mean?”

“I’m going to fight,” I say. “In the arena.”

Ben laughs, more like a derisive snort.

“You’re kidding. Arena One is filled with professional killers. And even these killers get killed. No one survives. Ever. It’s just a prolonged death sentence. For their amusement.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t try,” I snap back, my voice rising, furious at his pessimism.

But Ben just looks back down, head in his hands, and shakes his head.

“Well, I won’t stand a chance,” he says.

“If you think that way, then you won’t,” I snap back. It is a phrase that Dad often used with me, and I am surprised to hear those same words now coming out of my mouth. It disturbs me a bit, as I wonder how much of him, exactly, I’ve absorbed. I can hear the toughness in my own voice, a toughness I never recognized until this day, and I almost feel as if he’s speaking through me. It’s an eerie feeling.

“Ben,” I say. “If you think you can survive, if you can see yourself surviving, then you will. It’s about what you force yourself to imagine in your head. About what you tell yourself.”

“That’s just lying to yourself,” Ben says.

“No it’s not,” I answer. “It’s training yourself. There’s a difference. It’s seeing your own future, the way you want it to be, and creating it in your head, and then making it happen. If you can’t see it, then you can’t create it.”

“You sound like you actually believe you can survive,” Ben says, sounding amazed.

“I don’t believe it,” I snap. “I know it. I am going to survive. I will survive,” I hear myself saying, with growing confidence. I have always had an ability to psych myself up, to get myself so into a head that there’s no turning back. Despite everything, I find myself swelling with a newfound confidence, a new optimism.

And suddenly, at that moment, I make a decision: I am determined to survive. Not for me. But for Bree. After all, I don’t know that she is dead yet. She might be alive. And the only chance I have of saving her is if I can stay alive. If I survive this arena. And if that’s what it takes, then that is what I will do.

I will survive.

I don’t see why I wouldn’t stand a chance. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s fight. That’s what I’ve been raised to be good at. I’ve been in a ring before. I’ve gotten my butt kicked. And I’ve gotten stronger for it. I’m not afraid.

“So then how are you going to win?” Ben asks. This time his question sounds genuine, sounds as if he really believes I might. Maybe something in my voice has convinced him.

“I don’t need to win,” I say back, calmly. “That’s the thing. I only need to survive.”

Barely do I finish uttering the words when I hear the sound of combat boots marching down the hall. A moment later, there comes the sound of our door opening.

They have come for me.